Archive for the ‘mental health’ Category

Boy oh boy, that’s gonna pop up on someone’s search, and they’re gonna haaaaate reading this.

Oh well.

Alright, I realized I though I’d said something, when I actually didn’t so here goes:
For my allies and friends, yes, showing clips or pictures of black people dead by police hands might get someone you know to wake up and smell the racism, but for me, given how often it’s happened, it’s like sharing bits of snuff porn, like Faces of Black Death, except they’re all real.
“Here’s this large black woman slumped over on the ground, dead or dying due to police neglect”
“Here’s the body of that kid with the Skittles and Iced Tea”
“Watch this cop shoot this black man to death!”
What I’m asking for here is for people to keep in mind that for some of us, this is tiresome and (yup, gonna say it. Hold on to you hats) TRIGGERING. Gasp, I know, I used the terrible word that shows that I’m fragile snowflake that cannot handled Real Life.

You know, like I haven’t been bombarded with this photos for fucking YEARS already.  I’ve had enough Real Life.  I’ve had enough of our dead being used to “prove” that we’re being slain unfairly. Can you, just for a moment, try to empathize that maybe I…or we…have had enough Real Life, plxthanks.  Too many people, too many thoughts of brothers and mothers and fathers and grandparents and sisters pop in my own mind.  Too much Real Life will traumatize a motherfucker.  Like college students who have had Real Life thrown into their faces before they step one foot onto campus, lives of poverty, assault, rape, physical abuse, raising siblings, holding down jobs of their own.

Have some fucking empathy.

At the very least, put the article or picture in a comment. Find an article that has a picture of the victim alive, so we can see them as a person, and not a hunk of dead dark flesh to gawk at. 
Please? Please?

(And yes, I do make use of my “Hide Post” button. That’s not the fucking point.)

CN: suicide attempt mention


I read a blog post attack the concept of “wanting attention is bad” and it made me think about when I was a kid.

Last year was the 20 year anniversary of my first suicide attempt. I was 14, miserable, didn’t see any escape from the life I had except for death.  I would lay in my bed and cry out of misery.

And no, I really didn’t have anyone at home to talk about it. Well, no one would actually help.

Two years after that event, my stepmother threw into my face that the doctor treating me during my mental hospital stay told my dad that I was “doing this for attention”.

(she also told me during that conversation that if I tried to kill myself, she’d help me take the pills.  I almost took her up on it, if I didn’t have plans of my own)


“Stop typing and pet me more, you’ll feel better!”

Annnnyway, it took years for me to process that, and a few visits to a shrink to make me realize something about kids seeking attention.

So what?
I was a kid who thought death was preferable to living. As a KID. Even if I failed at it, how wasn’t that a cry for attention? I sure as fuck wasn’t getting it at home, hence the hard hit of depression, hence the attempt. Granted, I had been depressed for years prior, but it was two years building up of lacking the attention that would help me figure out my sense of self or security.
You’re damn right I wanted attention. And there was nothing wrong with that. Kids need attention, even when their ages start up in the double digits.  Preteens still need to know that they matter, that they are loved, that their needs are important too. They’re not tiny adults you can start shoving adult responsibilities onto and ignoring their needs.

And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be noticed.   This is very different from wanting to be in the center of everything. Why do we treat the former like the latter? We all desire to be noticed and acknowledged by our peers and families. Yes, even you Mr./Ms./Mx. “I don’t need society’s approval, I’m my own person”. A few days without acknowledgement of those around you, and you’d feel awful.  That’s why social media is a thing.  That’s why I’ve written so many words on this thing over like a year.

We’re kinda human like that.

So attention me, people! 🙂



Posted: November 24, 2015 in mental health, race
Tags: , , ,

So, while I was at Skepticon, shit was going down in my own town.  Black Lives Matter has been protesting in front of the 4th Precinct in reaction to the death of Jamar Clark by the police.  Some of my local friends have been out there, helping out and being awesome or being awesome allies.

And then last night, shit got worse. Five people shot by cowardly agitators.  They want to provoke their little race war so badly, provoke us to a response just so they can have their war as “self-defense”.  They’re cowards and fuck an entire bowl of them.

I could get on a bus right now and be there.  I could have been part of the response march.  I could be there, supporting those victimized by the police after the shootings with mace and nonsense.

But, thanks to fibro and anxiety, I can’t.  And that shit makes me feel helpless.  No, I can’t walk in a march.  No, I can’t be around huge groups of people, especially with the fear of violence with each breath.

And I feel, again, helpless.

See, back during Secular Women Work, myself and the ever awesome Trinity did a workshop about activism while disabled.  There are things you can do, if you can’t do what is seen as standard “activism”.  And I find myself trying to keep that in mind tonight.

I can retweet information.

I can put stories on blast.

I can write this post.

There are things I can do.  There are things that you, if you sitting here looking at a cane or a wheelchair or your stack of meds or your whatever is keeping you keeping on, can do to help those on the ground.  Got extra blankets?  Or can get to a thrift shop to get cheap blankets/hats/gloves? Can you get them to an occupation?  You don’t have to stay. Can’t get out of the house?  Do you have a friend who can do this for you?

Have access to social media? Share these stories. Share announcements. Given how bullshit the media can be (looks at her local paper and sets it on fire. Passive voice my black ass), social media is where you can get what’s going on and spread the word.

And, most importantly, if it’s too much, you can break away.  You can rest.  This goes double if you CAN show up.  Self-care is a very radical act.  No one is any good when burnt out.

Again, thanks for everyone who’s still reading these things. We’re on Day Three of a six day trip, so there’s not much left.

This also contains what I would have posted to inform my friends, so it repeats stuff. Sorry.

Also, CN for ableist language.

So, today I got stuck again. For some reason. Maybe they think my blood is so weird that they needed a sample to keep in the Archive of Weird Blood types.

You know, in case of the Uprising.

Seriously, I’m not keen on this.

I’m not keen on not having my vitals checked either. Sorry the machine sucks or my arms suck. But I can’t help that. But that doesn’t mean I get skipped today.  No fair.

No groups either. They can’t make me. I will not get overwhelmed again. I hate that shit. I’m here to be selfish, to deal with myself, not with a bunch of strangers. And their noise. How am I supposed to participate when I can barely hear?

I should learn more ASL.

Jodi came by. We talked about what to tell my ‘adoring’ social media public. I should have written down something. It would have gone like this:

Hi guys!

So, I’m in the mental health ward. I know, I know, I’m like years behind on being here, LOL

I checked myself in on Friday and don’t know when I’ll be out. They took my phone, the fuckers, so I have no clue when I’ll be getting that back. The scrubs are a lovely shade of dark orange rust. A little early for fall. Thankfully I’m allowed my own clothes.

The food is stand cafeteria fare, edible, but I’d steal a baby for some fries. And a chai.

I have Ioz, my MP3 player, going nearly much all day and for right now, I have order to not have a roommate. It’ll like I can’t handle people or something. Being an eldritch troll in human skin is hard. Thirty minutes checks get in the way of having moments to just relax. But I get to spend time in my room.

And at least there’s sherbet. Orange. Mmm. The flavor that is also a color.

Anyways, I’m safe. I’ll catch everyone up when I’m released – Crisis Intervention at the Mall of America, such a great story. For now I’m maintaining. Food, a bed, AC, my skulls, my writing and books. Also my own underwear. Something comforting about wearing your own underwear.

There’s a lot of crap I can’t have, obvious stuff if you’ve spent some time in a similar place. No cords, drawing, fireworks, fragrances, guns, toxic plants named Aubrey, shit like that.

I like candy and skulls. And people willing to run an errand.

So yeah, that’s it.

Ta-da and shit.

Don came by. Brought my spider blanket and the shawl I made. Brought some mouthwash but it wasn’t in my bag. We talk about the house.

I had a meltdown after he left. Ebon, my cane, has a broken rubber foot, so that’s why it slips. It was the last straw all of a sudden, and I cried.

Then I screamed. That felt good. Too long I keep this shit inside. Don’t cry too loud, don’t say the thing, shut up, be small, stay in your head.

They don’t like screaming ‘round here. So I better savor that moment unless I want to be moved to the more troublesome side of the ward.

Damn shame. I could use a good scream now and again.

So, I’m supposed to be getting a cane today so I can get around.

Not here yet. Not sure how to hobble over to even ask. At least I have the red “klutz” non-slip socks.

Once I calmed down from my fit, I wrote all my feelings about how I was treated. Some of the stuff is common sense, like “hey, don’t refer to a meltdown by an adult as a ‘temper tantrum’ or ‘the time to get a reasonable answer is NOT while they crazy is having a crazy moment’.

And by the way, having my “I don’t know” ignored is hella triggering. The Bitch used to hate those words. It’s not helpful to expect a hit when freaking out.

So, I wrote my feelings down and yapped at the nurse. Don’t know if he heard me. I want to know how to alert staff when I’m melting down without scaring everyone. Didn’t get an answer.

Got a goal, though. What starts this shit? It’s nice to allow the moment to happen, without holding bock, because I’m here to figure this shit out and crying in the middle of a Target never did anyone any good. Write it down. Go me. Gold sticker.

Skull sticker.

Silver foil. Gold isn’t my color.

OH! Jodi brought me candy!!

Thankfully, I seem to have calmed a bit on day two, save for a nasty little breakdown due to being overwhelmed during a group. It was supposed to be a relaxation group, but it involved rubbing on and over my joints, which since I was already a pile of nerves, hurt like a mofo.

Then they tried to take my vitals while I was upset and crying.  Automatic blood pressure monitors are a special sort of hell for me.  It squeezes too tight right over a trigger point, and then keeps squeezing.  So yeah, not useful.

Anyway, here’s Day Two.  Thank you for the kind words here and on FB.

So, I had a breakdown this morning. More and their sounds and this group I wasn’t ready for.

I don’t want to touch myself. It doesn’t bring me any comfort, only pain. Rubbing hurts. I don’t want to do groups. I want 1 on 1 or maybe 1 on 2. I’m comfortable like that.

Don and Jodi and Brianne came by for a visit. Don brought me stuff – more clothes, notepads (with skulls!!), pens. He was supposed to bring my fleece, but I said “skulls” when I meant spiders, so I got a pair of skull pj pants.  With drawstrings.

So can’t even wear them*.  Oh well.

I’ll ask for my shawl next time.

And mouthwash. My mouth feels stank.

And denture tablets.

I asked for forgiveness because I’ll be missing out on SWW. Everyone says that’s fine, but I kinda wished I hung on a lot longer – a week. Do the thing, then break apart.

It would have been bad, though. I’m not in a good place to do the talky thing, even though I’m an “expert”. And social stuff? Nah.

Pity. I wanted to Hiba and hang with Desiree Schell and meet Heina’s hubby. He’s got fibro too. We could commiserate.

Oh well.

Jodi was awesome. I found an article about dog behavior and that got her going.

Brianne got me a stuffy.

A Beanie baby.

It’s pink.

It’s a snail.

The eyes are weird, like Derpy Hooves.  Charming.

I don’t know what to name it though.



T.O.P, the hottest dork ever?**

G-Dragon, it’s weird like that.



There’s Zelo and U-Kwon too. Or maybe Xiumin.

Or XiuXiu the pink wonder.

I think we have a winner.

Wrote it on its tummy.

 I got Ioz*** today. It doesn’t have any Kpop on it, but I’m happy to have familiar sounds. Calming.

Also, earplugs. Earplugs are saving what little sanity I have left.

The silence is so soothing right now. My mind is free to have its thoughts. I can be in my head again. It’s nice.

Dorky little XiuXiu. I think I like that.

Too small for a cuddle, though. Might ask Don for my bigger IKEA heart.

The food is standard cafeteria fare. And I’ve eaten every meal. In my room. It’s nice to have this peace white I eat. I miss it.

Got stuck for blood today. I’m gonna start calling my veins “The Humbler”, capable of sending even the most confident phlebotomist into rethinking their trade. Didn’t help that I was terribly dehydrated either. Four sticks. Some digging. I had needles.

Pissed in a cup. Dark yellow. Wasn’t hydrated.

Now thought? I’m practically full of water. They’re good at that.


Shit hurts.

Especially when you’re panicking.

Also, there’s an order to keep me alone for now. Also earplugs and headphones.

I got books. I started reading the Complete Sherlock Holmes, Vol. Two, but Don brought me Eric and Zahra’s books. Galley Proof is delightful. I feel so bad that his other surgery fucked him over. I wish nothing but hope and happiness for him and T.J.

Asked Don to bring a copy of TLW****. Might as well figure out how Patch is doing by reading up on what I’ve done to him already.

Weird! I’m chatty in here, but can’t even maintain eye contact outside. I’m weird.

Oh, some doc spoke to me about pain management. Pool therapy and massage and acupuncture.

If another person suggests anything acu- to me, I might scream. This is a hospital. Give me real medicine!!

Talked to nurse-practitioner-shrink as well. No one gets why I’m weird with sounds. Maybe autistic or Asperger’s? Dunno.  

I’m off the Adderall and the Prozac. We’re trying other shit. I’m also losing M___. Fuck him.

How do you look at someone obviously in distress and just…let them go?

With a survey to inform you of how they feel about their care?

I wanna sue. Heartless fucker.

Men from the Midwest should be banned from psycho- medicine giving unless they’re very, very gay. Like my old shrink.

So, screw him. I’m ready to listen to those who will hear me out, banter with me, take a joke.

So, screening. Don’t know what they’ll find, but it involves the World’s Longest Scantron Test. I think both the SAT and the ACT were shorter than this monster – 520 questions! And some were just hilarious I laughed a lot.

“Do you fell hopeless?” HA!

“Have you recently thought about killing yourself?” HA!

And all the sex questions! My asexual ass was not having that. Though I got a good chortle out of the freaky sex question.


Even though I’m ace.

There’s apparently more to do tomorrow, so that’ll be fun.

More tests, more talking, less freakouts?

I’m down to one nail on my right hand, btw.

They want me to set goals every day. Don’t even know what’s that about. My goal? You tell me. I can’t adult right now.

Except I have to. I’ll lose my benefits so I’ll have to call the state and then let my legal people know what’s going on.

Maybe I can stay here forever. They bring me food and make sure I take my meds. They check on me. I don’t have to think right now.

Maybe this is where I belong. In an institution. It’s safe here, unless it involves groups.

Or people.

I hate people.

They smell weird and speak too loud.

But yeah, can’t stay here forever. I miss my bed and my cats and my man. I miss the Internet like a missing limb. What’s going on in the world? Outside of the fucking local newspaper? Have my favorite blogs updated? How are my online friends? How’s music? Did a new song come out?

I’m missing updates on Jimquistion and Steve Shives, and reaction vids and WTFIWWY?

Those are my entertainment. Not TV and Comedy Central and fucking Adam Sandler movies.

Ugh. I feel snobby, but for fuck’s sake, can a bitch get some WWW up in here?


*There’s a long list of things visitors can’t bring and drawstrings are on it for obvious reasons.

**The listed are all Kpop stars I like a lot. I link to gifs so you can at least know what they look like. You’re welcome for the eye candy.

***My iPod Touch. I name my stuff, doesn’t everyone?

****My first novel.  No, I won’t link to it.

This is what I wrote down my first night in hospital in my room.  It is rambling.  It repeats points.  It might not make for the most interesting reading, but I’m putting it here to show just where I was starting from.  The bottom, the part where I couldn’t adult anymore.  So yeah, head’s up. It’s was rough to write and then type up.

CN: Ableist terms.  I apologize in the light of doing a lot better.

So, I’m here
I finally stopped just letting the suffering come and go and I’m in the wacko warden.
They took my phone away.
My phone.
I cried like a baby. Weird, killing myself got me like “Meh” but no phone? No connection. No LIFE.
Who am I kidding? I wasn’t really engaging this week. Not a personal level. Everything was Meh. I didn’t even care enough to share before my phone went poof!
Fuck, I need that thing. What am I gonna do? Even now, I can hear the voices of the others, and I want them gone. Away, drowned out by the sound of my world. B.A.P. making me want to kick ass, Shinee making me wanna dance.
Fuck, is someone chewing? Crunch, crunch, fuck me, this is gonna be a hard one to deal with *. People laughing, people talking, people EXISTING. Fucking people. Fuck people.
I hate their noises and smells and sounds. All day surrounded by people, existing with their noises and sounds. Happy people at the mall, sick people in the ER. Fuck me, I hate this.
At least my room is private for now. No one tries to talk or make friendly back.
I want my dog. Or my heart. Need to Don to bring my heart. Not AIDS **. AIDS isn’t squishy. Not dog. Dog too fluffy. Heart to squeeze.
I want my kitty. Weasel, I’m sorry. Your human is a little, or a lot, crazy. I’m your fuzzy butt wasn’t enough to keep me going. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, SWW***. I’m not very strong, and my mind’s timing is shit. I can’t be the super awesome activist I want to be, that people say I am. I rant about injustices in the world because I can’t do fuck all about the injustices inside my skin. Rant about that is whining. No one likes a whiner.
I’ve kept myself from imposing my emotional shit on others. I didn’t talk when it really counted. They deserved that, and I deserve no more weak, useless platitudes. Everything isn’t going to be alright, and I have to get that now. Nothing is fine, the world is fucked. Allies care more about their feelings and “honor” over the lives of the downtrodden and minorities. Who can you trust? Who will turn next? Who will prove to be the next “former” ally? It’s maddening. Troubling. Pissed-offening.
So the world sucks, I suck, the system sucks, now what? What’s the fucking point of going on?
Why not just stare at the walls and drool until the end? What’s the point? What am I doing here? Why did I agree to come? Nothing will come of it. Nothing ever comes of it.
I miss Don already. He gives no fucks and that’s amazing. He’s a grown man who doesn’t need me, not like I need him.
I miss Weasel already. Little whiny bastard. I love him so much, the fucker. This bed is wrong. Smells wrong, feels wrong. No soft sheets and warm man and warm cat and me trying to fit between. I want earplugs. This is hell already. Movies I gave no shit about, groups I give no shit about, activities I give no shit about and I WANT MY PHONE!!!
I want screens, I need screens, I need that separation from the world and it’s noises and faces and presence. I need it. I feel naked without it. Without them. Eyes and voices can attack me, ravages me, flay me open with no protection now. I don’t like this.
They don’t understand and I can’t make them understand. Screens save me, make me good, gives me something to focus on.
Now, I write. My hand aches but what else am I gonna do? Watch Divergent? Make awkward “what are you in for?” conversation with strangers?
I don’t know!
So I write. Let it out. Let it go someplace where no one can respond or reach our with understanding. My screen tribe of weridos and freaks who also can’t handle the world as it. They “Like” and comment and acknowledge my struggle. Those moments when I feel that I’m not even human, when my human skin buckles under pressures and ME wants out. Whoever that is, it’s ME and human bodies are weird and hard to operate and other humans are dull and the wrong sort of weird. The sad sort of weird.
Wait. Maybe I’m the said sort of weird.
“Normal” people don’t struggle with pain that makes them weary. They don’t have thoughts that ravage their minds, that tell them how they don’t belong. How there is no point in continuing because everything you try to do is shit.
Normal people work.
Normal people have friends in meatspace.
Normal people get married
Normal people have kids.
Normal people have normal worries, like mortgages and retirement and now to get or keep good credit and now to give Junior the best start in life.
They don’t sit in a looney bin, bereft of plans. They don’t tremble at the thought of groups. A conversation on a bus isn’t a terror for them. Nope. Normal people can walk and run and stand in lines for hours. Normal people love concerts and crowds. Normal people love parties. Normal people don’t think they were not human ever, because they are normal.
I’m not normal.
I’m barely human.
I don’t deserve to be treated as one.
Look at the Fatus Freakus.
Beware her barely washed hair tentacles.
Behold the stench that wafts throughout her body, the scent of lazy exhaustion.
Careful, her soul sucking toothless maw will spit out the horrible curses every mother warned you about.
Fret not, though. This Eldritch horror is easily contained.
Just set a screen in front of it, and watch it aim itself harmlessly.
Just don’t touch it.
Or crowd it.
Or try to speak to it.
The Eldritch troll woman. That’s me.

*Misophonia (sound sensitivity) is a pain in the everything. Even the nurses had no clue what it was and looked it the fuck up.  Finally I got earplugs the next day.

**AIDS the plush bacteria. Don got it for me the last time we went to the science museum.

***Secular Women Work, local kick ass conference that happened August 21-23. I was supposed to be doing a couple of workshops and a panel.  I made it.

This is me getting all the crap I was writing while in hospital out and out here.  I struggled for a while to figure out a title for this little series that wasn’t ableist or boring.

So I came up with “They Took My Phone”.  Since that was a huge fucking worry while I was there.  And in hindsight, it makes me laugh.

So, if you’re not up for hearing these thoughts, you can skip these.  Don’t worry, I’ve got so much to rant about normally.  So let’s get this out of the way.

I have amazing friends, and some came to visit me.  One dear friend took point as my official online communicator, giving out the info as to where I was, and if/when I was ready for visitors and such.  Everyone should have a friend like this.

There was a post I wanted to pass along, but I forgot to hand it over during a visit, so I”m putting this here, since some of you readers did wish me well:

Hullo Mother
Hullo Father
Here I am in
Camp “We’re All Mad Here”…
I should be released back into the world soon. I couldn’t let another day pass without thanking each and every one of you who commented, liked, sent photos of smolz, visited, got me A Thing, and let me ramble unfiltered at your face. I’m blown the fuck away by this avalanche of “We Give A Fuck”. Whenever I’m feeling hopeless, I look at the responses and read them.
You like me, you really like me.
I should be out of here by Thursday, Friday at the latest. I want to make an appearance at Secular Women Work because after near a week of meltdowns, med adjustments, wishing bad things to happen to my psychiatrist, and self-imposed isolation, I want to come out swinging and kicking ass and looking awesome.
This shit gives me something to live for.
I’ve got shit to do. Too much shit to do.
So, yeah. Much love,

Getting My Bearings

Posted: August 30, 2015 in Just stuff, mental health

So, ‘sup?

Been a while, yeah?

Sorry.  August has been a very tough month for me, mentally and physically, so I haven’t really been up for loud ranting and raving, though there is so much to rant and rave about.  It can be overwhelming at times.

It’s strange.  One deleted comment after my “whiny gamerbro” post suggested that I “get therapy”.  Funny, I’ve been in therapy for years, and still think gamerbros are whiny entitled babies who don’t want to share their toys, so take that, anonymous asshole.

There’s so gentle way to get into this, so here goes.  I admitted myself into a hospital a couple of weeks ago for suicidal thoughts and a plan. I’ll spare you the details, but it was just what I needed.  I managed to get out, feeling better, just in time for the Secular Women Work conference here in town.  It felt so good to see some of the people who’d be rooting for me up close and huggable.

And holy cow, how much rooting did I get!  I got well wishes on Facebook that a dear friend printed out for me (since they took my phone away), and stuffed animals and make up and gift cards and so many people wishing me well and health and to return.

…and thanking me for knowing when and how to get help.  That’s the hard part.  It always is.  Going from “well, this is it” to “well, maybe I should reach out” is a big leap.  But so far, I’m glad I made the jump.

So, I’m getting my bearings, getting used to new meds, looking to get a new psychiatrist (the last one can eat glass), and getting back into the swing of things.  While I was in the hospital, I filled journals with my days and my thoughts, and I might share them here.  I think people need to know what it’s like to be Black and mentally ill. But don’t worry.  I’m back, I’m gearing up for some of the old ultra-snark, and I can’t even leave anyway…Weasel said so.

He's sitting on my shoes, y'all.  I can't leave the how #catlogic

He’s sitting on my shoes, y’all. I can’t leave the how #catlogic